


A Dance Of The Duration

by milliewells



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Made Up Events, Stolen from reality, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:09:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milliewells/pseuds/milliewells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Photographs and drawings lined the room's walls; an avant-garde decor that widen the poet's eyes like nothing else had done before. Each one was carefully drawn, taken or painted, seemingly purposefully. Smiling faces infected each person like a pandemic outbreak of ecstasy. The wall was alive with the euphoric expressions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance Of The Duration

**Author's Note:**

> "Jehan," and the male looked up at him, "can you keep a secret?" The question was naturally rhetorical, but he was offered a fitting gesticulation even so. "Then let me tell you a story..."

A vivid sense of déjà vu plagued his mind as Courfeyrac felt the bijou poet lace his fingers through his own, pulling him toward his lover's own apartment, for what appeared to be the nth time in the past forever. And it really had seemed like an eternity. It might as well have been, to a man who had all of the time in the world. However, in all of that aspect of perpetuity, not once had the poet stepped through his door. The pair spent lengthy and lazy afternoons in Courfeyrac's vast garden space; Jehan not deigning to go through the tangibly distanced door. His excuse wasn't at all that he was frightened to, nor that he believe that Courfeyrac had reason not to permit his entry; just that he had never had he cause to, nor been invited, to enter. But today was different. A vivid sense of déjà vu plagued his mind as Courfeyrac felt the bijou poet lace his fingers through his own, pulling him toward the his lover’s own apartment, for what appeared to be the nth time in the past forever. And it really had seemed like an eternity. It might as well have been, to a man who had all of the time in the world. His curly haired companion saw a spark that, despite their uncanny compatibility, he had not recognised before now.

Before opening the door, a negligible sigh that suggested that it was something he had to psyche himself up for escaped Courfeyrac's lips, which earned a glance of curiosity from the considerably smaller other. The key turned with ease in the lock, as though it was freshly cut that day, with no noticeable malfunctions. When he first opened the door, taking Jehan in with him before he closed the door behind them, nothing in the slightest struck the latter as ambiguous. Nothing, in fact, until he was led to the notably largest room in the house, which had also happened to be Courfeyrac's room.

Photographs and drawings lined the room's walls; an avant-garde décor that widen the poet's eyes like nothing else had done before. Each one was carefully drawn, taken or painted, seemingly purposefully. Smiling faces infected each person like a pandemic outbreak of ecstasy. The wall was alive with the euphoric expressions. But that wasn't the thing that diverted from the norm. As the walls went along, the works of art grew progressively older. Pencil sketches turned to paintings; turned to black and white photos, then gained colour. The fashion, like it had in time, was modernised. The jacket's cravats slimmed to ties, and the darker colours were enhanced to brighter ones. Looking at the wall was like a trip through the ages, all until you reached the ones that looked more as though they were from the modern day. The ones with Jehan, and not the other men as before.

After his fingers had traced the outlines of a few of the paper's borders, Jehan turned to Courfeyrac with a raised idiosyncratic eyebrow of most genuine question that had the appearance of something that craved nothing more than answers. Who were these people? Why haven't I see this before? How did you make them grow to appear progressively older? They were all of the things that he could ask. But he didn't. In lieu, he picked up one of the eldest of the drawings, that felt far more fragile than it looked, to the extent that he was close to placing it back in its righteous position, and the only reason he didn't was because of Courfeyrac's nod granted to him to the consent he sought. "Courf?" The poet spoke with a unique tone, so soft that it could only ever be his. "Who is this?" He finished his query as he handed the illustration to his beau, who took it from him before replying. "Jehan," and the male looked up at him, "can you keep a secret?" The question was naturally rhetorical, but he was offered a fitting gesticulation even so. "Then let me tell you a story..."

**Author's Note:**

> \- Pairings will be added by the chapter.
> 
> Updates will be so-so until exams are over; but feedback will always be read and appreciated.c:  
> (If you want to say hello (because that would make me smile) you can also find me heeeeere: thecolourofdesire.tumblr.com )


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